Free The House on Fortune Street by Margot Livesey Page A

she left the room. He heard the sounds of first their front door, then hers, open and close.
    Later that evening, when Abigail rang, he mentioned the encounter. “How was she?” she said. “She left me a message the other day. I couldn’t quite make it out, but I know she was upset. By the time I
    phoned back she was in a meeting.”
    “She seemed fine, a bit preoccupied. Or, I don’t know, maybe tired.
    Things at the center sound even more chaotic than usual.”
    “I must call her. I just never have ten minutes free when we’re
     
    touring.” A rustling sound accompanied her words—was she sorting papers?—and then she began to talk about how well their school visit had gone.
     
    n the first day of December, Sean woke abruptly to the knowledge that the euthanasia book was due in a week. For nearly a month he had been dodging Valentine’s phone calls and writing optimistic replies to his e-mails, almost all of which reported finishing a section, or a chapter. Now he had to face the reality that his pursuit of the interviews, and his absorption with the subject matter, had led to many pages but not yet to the coherent chapters that represented his half of the book. The idea of discussing this, or indeed anything, with Valentine was out of the question. Instead, as he stepped into his jeans and pulled on a shirt, he decided to contact
    the secretary.
    Three hours later he climbed the stairs to the attic office. He knocked at the half-open door and a voice called, “Enter.”
    The secretary was at his desk, on the phone. He smiled, and nodded toward a chair. “This is a matter for your doctor,” he said into the receiver. “If you can’t resolve it with him or her, then you should seek a second opinion, but it isn’t grounds for a complaint to the BMA. People have to act according to their consciences. Forgive me, I have someone waiting.”
    After several more attempts, he managed to extricate himself.“Sorry about that,” he said, approaching with outstretched hand. “Part of my job, as you’ve probably gathered, is to act as an informal counselor. It’s hard for people to keep things in perspective when it’s literally a matter of life and death.”
    He offered coffee, stepped out of the room, and returned a minute
     
    later with two blue mugs.“Please feel free to keep your coat on,” he said, handing Sean a mug and seating himself opposite. “There’s about ten days a year when this office is comfortable.” He himself was wearing a dark green pullover and brown corduroy trousers that once again made Sean think of open fields and country lanes. “I’m fine,” Sean said. “Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.”
    “It’s nice to have a break from my normal duties. Besides, I’m eager to hear how things are going.” He regarded Sean expectantly.
    “That’s what I want to talk to you about. I’m afraid I’m a little behind. It’s not that I’m not working.” He held up his file of pages. “But each person’s story is so fascinating, and so heartrending.” He trailed off, taking refuge in his coffee.
    “I see,” said the secretary. “The good news is that you’ve become a convert to our cause. The bad news is that everything is taking longer than you’d expected.”
    “Exactly,” said Sean gratefully.
    “I should tell you that Valentine phoned last week. He wanted me to know that his half of the book was virtually done but he was concerned that you might not make the deadline. He said you were a perfectionist.”
    Carefully Sean set the coffee down. Was there no end to Valentine’s betrayals? His brain seethed with retorts and denunciations: Valentine’s wretched prose, the way he cut every possible corner. He realized that the secretary was waiting. “That’s one way to put it,” he said lamely. “We’re not ideal coauthors.”
    “But that is your present relationship. We have a contract and money has changed hands.” The secretary was sitting straighter,